


an ocean away

by aphreal



Series: Fundamental Truths [1]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Multiple Wardens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-19
Updated: 2017-08-19
Packaged: 2018-12-17 03:03:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,966
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11842617
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphreal/pseuds/aphreal
Summary: Chancellor Cousland unexpectedly encounters Alistair at a royal gala, several years after the Blight. Surely it shouldn't be too hard to get through one evening without confessing all of the things she's spent those years not saying...





	an ocean away

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TrulyCertain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyCertain/gifts).
  * Inspired by [the weight of water](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6434398) by [TrulyCertain](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyCertain/pseuds/TrulyCertain). 



> Set several years post-game in an AU where Duncan recruits two Wardens: an Amell who becomes Warden-Commander at Vigil's Keep, and a Cousland who becomes the Hero of Ferelden and Chancellor to Queen Anora. 
> 
> Huge thanks to Cherie for always being up to beta, even though I keep breaking her heart to stock up my tear collection.
> 
> Also thanks to Tru for the lovely inspiration story... and for hopefully forgiving me for making my version even more angsty. (Happy ending? We don't do those around here.)

Alexia sits patiently as the servant girl finishes pinning up her hair, twisting the final errant locks in place. The silver chains woven through the braids are included, she was told, to complement the accents on her midnight blue gown. If they happen to disguise the strands of silver that have begun to thread through her golden hair in recent years, surely that’s a fortunate coincidence rather than something planned. 

She wonders when Anora instructed the staff to start concealing signs of her chancellor’s age. 

Not that she entirely disagrees. Reminders of mortality are particularly unwelcome following the disastrous tragedy at the Conclave. With the Chantry beheaded and war erupting between rebelling mages and their rogue one-time jailors, the people need what scant reassurances they can get about the stability of their remaining leadership. The queen and her chief advisor are central to holding Ferelden together; they can’t be seen to weaken or falter. 

Reassurance. That’s the whole purpose of tonight’s ambassadorial gala. When the idea of hosting a celebration was raised in a privy council meeting, Alexia shared Anora’s skepticism, but the arguments made had persuaded them both. No one could fault a gathering to strengthen ties with their allies and neighboring powers in these troubled times, and few things offer more of a sense of normality than a party held simply for the sake of having a party. Thedas can’t be falling apart too badly if the Queen of Ferelden is devoting an entire day to leisure and entertainment. 

Behind the screen of gaiety, Alexia hopes to speak with many of her counterparts who will be attending. Let the people celebrate life; her job is to ensure they will continue to have lives to celebrate. What else is a royal gala for if not politicking? 

Thanking the serving girl for her lovely work, Alexia rises, smoothing her skirts and preparing for an evening of polite smiles, measured words, and hopefully holding their little scrap of Thedas together while everything else falls apart. It shouldn’t be too difficult; she has experience on her side. 

 

The palace ballroom is filled nearly to overflowing with color and music and laughter. And if the numbers in attendance are lower than in the past, who can tell past the elaborate drapes and screens that offer the illusion of private speaking areas and break up the lines of sight? Alexia’s estimation of the royal decorators rises yet again. 

And rises even further when she ascends the steps of the royal dais, taking her place of honor standing beside the queen’s throne, and discovers that Anora is been elevated and positioned to see clearly past all of the obstacles. She shouldn’t be surprised; the queen has never chosen to shield herself from unpleasant truths. 

Anora greets her approach with a pleasant smile, which Alexia returns, along with a deep nod that stops just short of a shallow bow. Taking her place to the right of the throne, Alexia surveys the crowd, noting who is present and who is speaking to whom. She marks out several individuals to speak with later in the evening, once the light socializing is completed and business can begin. 

A flash of blue and silver catches her eye, leather and steel strikingly martial amidst all the silks and satins. No one told her there would be Grey Wardens at the gala. 

The crowd prevents her from identifying the man wearing the uniform, but it must be a man. The only other female Warden of any rank in Ferelden hasn’t been seen for nearly two years, away on a mission so secret that even her superiors don’t know precisely what she’s seeking to do. Alexia heard the full story over tea the night before she set off on her quest, and if she had returned, Alexia would be among the first to know. She wonders who Amaranthine sent in the Warden-Commander’s place tonight. 

The crowd shifts, guests moving to dance or drink or mingle, giving her a clear view of him, and Alexia forgets how to breathe. Of all the Wardens she might have expected to see, both the ones she would want to speak to and the ones she’d need to avoid, she didn’t imagine it would be the one who falls into both categories. 

Alistair. Maker’s breath, she hasn’t seen him in… far too long. Two years, at least. The uniform is new, a style she doesn’t recognize, but otherwise, he’s almost exactly as she remembers: broad shoulders at odds with a posture that tries not to be noticed, a flash of self-satisfied smile as laughter ripples through the crowd around him, that achingly familiar profile with the nose he hates and the stubborn jaw. His hair is a bit longer, at least on the top, and she imagines his face would have a few more lines -- crinkles around the eyes and mouth -- if she were close enough to see them. 

She doesn’t realize that she’s walking towards him until her breath catches again with the radiance of the smile that lights up his face when he sees her. 

Alexia continues unchecked. There’s no reason she shouldn’t talk to him, after all. It’s entirely appropriate for the chancellor to speak with an important guest from an organization of valued allies, an organization she happens to belong to. And it’s public knowledge that they’re old friends. There’s no reason she shouldn’t talk to him. 

With an effort, she remembers how to breathe. Summoning a smile in greeting isn’t necessary; figuring out how to stop beaming at him would be the true challenge. The conversation around him withered at her approach, reforming into new patterns around his abrupt, distracted lack of participation. She steps into near silence, a conversational void, the closest one can come to privacy in a thronged ballroom. 

“The new dress uniform suits you.” It’s not an empty compliment; she’s always thought Warden blue favored him, whether it was the color itself or the confidence he got from wearing it. Up close, she sees the lines she imagined on his face, although the brackets around his mouth are deeper than she expected. The past two years haven’t been easy for him. 

His eyes scan over her in turn, and she has a fleeting moment of gratitude for the trickery with the chains in her hair, foolish vanity, as if it matters to him that her hair has almost imperceptibly begun to grey. 

One corner of his mouth turns up in a half smile. “It’s still strange to see you in a gown.” 

Alexia laughs at the sincere but graceless observation, out of place in this court setting but so very him. “However will I withstand such flattery?” 

His cheeks flush. “I didn’t say it was _bad_ strange, just… different strange. I still think of you in armor, and you look… different like this.” He gestures vaguely, somehow encompassing the entirety of her body in a silver-spangled blue gown rather than blue-enameled silver armor. 

She raises one shoulder in a casual shrug, brushing her hand down the bodice to smooth the fabric. If his eyes follow her hand, it’s only in her imagination that there’s anything lingering or appraising about his gaze. “Armor isn’t an option tonight, I’m afraid. Her majesty seems to think it sets the wrong tone when her privy councilors come to formal gatherings armed.” 

He laughs, bright and open and easy, in that way she’s always envied and never understood how she could provoke. 

Quickly, she changes the subject. “Not that I’m complaining, because I’m certainly glad to see you, but I didn’t expect you to be here tonight.” 

“Oh…” Something flits across his face, replaced by an easy smile before she can identify it. Surprise? Confusion? Disappointment? Relief? “I guess the invitation must not have come from you, then.” 

Alexia raises an eyebrow. “This is the first I’ve heard about an invitation sent to the Vigil.” 

“There was definitely an invitation. A very formal one with proper swirly writing on thick paper. But it wasn’t sent to the Vigil; it was sent specifically to me. Addressed as Warden-Commander.” There’s an edge of bitterness under the casual drawl of his words. 

Before she can explore it, Alexia is jostled from behind. She turns to see a couple spinning through the steps of a traveling waltz, the man flashing an apologetic grimace at her over his partner’s shoulder as the dance carries them away. 

Belatedly, Alexia takes in the details of her location, right on the edge of the dance floor. She and Alistair are in the way and drawing attention. Depending on what he has to say, that may not be wise. “Since you were invited to the gala, you ought to have a dance while you’re here. Shall we?” 

He looks around, his eyes flicking through the same calculations she did, and he agrees, holding a hand out to her. She takes it, and they step into the pattern of the dance as it passes by. 

She’s always thought that Alistair is a better dancer than he gives himself credit for. He’s rarely had occasion to practice, that she knows of, but he takes to it naturally, moving with the timing and grace of a swordsman. He isn’t confident about the footwork, but that’s no great hindrance. Alexia flows through these steps as easily as breathing, and he readily follows her lead. He always has. 

The pace of the waltz accelerates, and Alexia leans back into the next turn. Alistair’s eyes widen in surprise, and for a moment she’s falling. Then he lunges after her, his arm coming further around her waist, supporting and steadying her as they sweep awkwardly through the rest of the turn. When their feet steady, the footwork smoothing out to match the new tempo, his breathless smile holds relief and apology. And his arm is still tight around her waist, holding her closer than before. Closer to the beaming smile and flushed cheeks and warm eyes glowing with happiness. Too close, and she needs a distraction, to remind herself… 

“Warden-Commander?” She picks up the conversation again. “Is Weisshaupt aware of your promotion?”

He startles, then a huffed laugh escapes, and she imagines she can feel the breath of it on her cheek. “They don’t see the need for a replacement, as far as I know. Weisshaupt is in full support of an investigation into any reports of the Architect surfacing. Imagine how bad it would look for them to get blindsided by another talking darkspawn reappearing when it’s supposed to be dead.” 

Alexia files the comment away, a mental note to look more deeply into the scattered rumors about this Corypheus, if the Wardens think it warrants such attention. “Is that what Weisshaupt thinks she’s up to? Looking for the Architect’s return?” 

“Of course!” Alistair’s smile is bright with false innocence. “What else would she be doing?” 

Alexia supposes it’s not an outright lie, this cover story for their superiors. Finding the Architect had been the first step in Lisbet’s plan when she’d set out two years ago. The creature’s abilities to manipulate the progression of the Taint had seemed a promising lead in her search to cure it. 

“Most of the paperwork has been coming from Nathaniel.” Alistair continues, his steps growing more steady as he stops thinking about his feet. “If the queen needed to invite the next in line to a big event, it should have been him, not me.” 

From the wry twist to his lips, she’s sure that Alistair understands as well as she does the need to preserve appearances in front of so many foreign dignitaries. A hero of the Fifth Blight is a more appropriate party guest than the son of a traitor. None of which needs to be said. “I’m glad she invited you instead. You’re more fun to dance with than Nate.” 

Alistair scoffs. “We need to work on your idea of fun. I’d be willing to bet Nathaniel’s never stepped on your toes.” 

“I’d take that bet, and you’d lose.” She smirks, spinning them through another turn before elaborating. “It only happened once, though, and Nate can be safely forgiven. He was fourteen at the time and growing so quickly he wasn’t sure where his own feet were half the time, much less anyone else’s.” 

Alistair winces in sympathy, likely recalling his own awkward growth stages, and Alexia smiles as she tries to imagine an adolescent version of him, lanky and skinny, like a mabari pup yet to grow into its paws. The picture is surprisingly sweet, and she fleetingly wonders what it would have been like to know him sooner. Before everything got so complicated. 

 

Song blends into song, and she shifts smoothly from waltz to pavane to galliard, Alistair following her lead at every step. Dancing, talking, laughing, she loses all sense of time. The rest of the ballroom fades away until nothing exists beyond the two of them. His smile, his wit, his eyes. The arm around her waist, the warm hand gently wrapped around hers, the way they move together as one. The sensations are heady, intoxicating, and ever so dangerous if she begins to let herself pretend she has any right to this. 

Alistair seems as caught in the moment as she is, enjoying the time apart from the rest of the world. His smile is bright, his laughter warm, but when he lets his guard down, the loneliness bleeds through from underneath. He was only invited here tonight because everyone has decided, after two years, that his wife is dead. Is he still holding onto hope that she’ll return, or has he begun to believe them? 

The music comes to an end, the orchestra pausing for a break. Alexia comes to a stop as well, the stillness almost disorienting after dancing for so long. The floor feels like it continues to move under her feet, like the landsickness her mother used to talk about after becoming accustomed to the motion of a ship on a long sea voyage. The feeling passes, and the solidity of the floor reasserts itself through the thin soles of her dancing shoes. She steps out of the dancing hold, dropping Alistair’s hand. 

His arm falls from around her waist, and he shakes himself slightly like he’s emerging from water, blinking as he looks around the ballroom. His dazed expression clears, and he offers her a rueful but sincere smile as they leave the dance floor. “I’m glad we got to catch up, but I should stop hoarding you before your husband takes offense and challenges me to a duel. Isn’t that how Antivans handle this sort of thing?” 

“Antony’s a charming, witty, and well-connected man. I’m sure he’s not lacking for dance partners tonight.” 

A slight frown furrows Alistair’s brow at her airy dismissal. “He can’t like any of them as much as you, though.” 

The laugh that escapes her is a mistake, too sharp and brittle. She tamps down on it quickly, but not soon enough. 

“Lexia?” The crease in Alistair’s brow deepens, and his stance shifts, becoming somehow protective. 

She should brush off the lapse with some light, easy lie, but she can’t manage to hold a blithe facade under the weight of those eyes. Maker, his eyes… 

She tears her gaze away. “Not here.” 

The ballroom holds too many listening ears and watching eyes, too many parties who would keenly seize on any sign of distress or weakness she betrayed. The gossip about Antony is insidious and pervasive -- and to varying extents, true -- but as long as she never appears bothered by the barbed rumors, they have little power. She can’t afford to provide that opening. 

“Where, then?” Alistair isn’t deterred, staring at her with a look of concern and determination. But it’s the compassion in his eyes that undoes her resolve. 

“I could use some air.” 

 

Alexia walks out into the privacy of the gardens, Alistair trailing after her. The flowers spread out in their neatly-tended beds and trellises, colors leached in the moonlight but lovely even so. She lifts her face to the night, taking a deep breath of the cool air, a burst of freedom when she wasn’t aware that she’d felt trapped. 

“Can you tell me what’s going on now?” Alistair sounds worried, tense. That’s his expecting-an-ambush voice; her rushed pace and general agitation must have drawn out long-dormant reflexes. 

Alexia slows her steps, holding her pace to a sedate stroll appropriate for a moonlit garden and deliberately lowering her tightened shoulders. “Everything’s fine; I didn’t mean to worry you. It just caught me off guard. I suppose I’m always surprised when someone hasn’t heard the gossip.” 

“Most of it doesn’t get as far as Amaranthine. Although when it does, it’s gone through about five sets of ears and become highly improbable, if much more entertaining.” Alistair falls into step beside her, his smirk fading into something thoughtful. “Earlier tonight, I heard someone saying… a joke, maybe, I mean, people laughed, so it must have been. I didn’t understand the punchline, but it was about… someone called Niccolo?”

“Niccolo is Antony’s secretary, manservant --” She isn’t used to having to spell it out for people, but it’s best to be clear, given the circumstances. “-- and lover.” 

Alistair comes to an abrupt halt, his feet crunching on the gravel of the path. “Or I don’t have to wait for Antony to challenge me to a duel.” 

Alexia turns, catching hold of his arm before he can do anything rash. She can feel the tensed muscles through his sleeve. “It’s not like that. Alistair, it’s fine.” 

“Your husband’s being unfaithful to you, and you’re fine with it?” 

“He isn’t…” Alexia sighs, releasing his arm as her hands wave through useless gestures while she searches for words. The simplest explanation is always best. “Antony and Niccolo have been passionately devoted to one another since long before I met either of them. And Antony never concealed that from me.” 

Alistair’s outrage melts into confusion, but a frown still tugs at his mouth. “So you’re content to, what, share your husband with this man?” 

“In a way, but…” She exhales sharply, an unamused huff of laughter. “Let me stop you before you arrive at any of the more salacious speculation that circulates at court. Neither Antony nor Niccolo are the least bit interested in women, so it isn’t _that_ sort of sharing.” She feels her cheeks flush and hopes the moonlight robs her of color as readily as it does the flowers. “To be clear, I have never been intimate in any way with either of them.” 

Confusion becomes tinged with disbelief as Alistair’s mouth drops open. “You’ve never, with your husband, at all?” 

Lifting her chin, she answers calmly and crisply. “Antony has never touched me, romantically, beyond the formal kiss at the wedding ceremony. We spent our wedding night playing chess.” She chuckles at the memory, fond and rueful. “At which I was -- and still am -- sorely outmatched.” 

“Why would you…” Alistair shakes his head, furrows of confusion deepening. “Why did you marry him, then?” 

The answer comes easily. “Antony is a wonderful man. He’s clever, kind, charming, gracious. He is one of the most intelligent and perceptive people that I’ve ever known, for all that he prefers not to flaunt it. I enjoy his company very much, as he does mine. It’s an excellent match politically, as well. Both Ferelden and Antiva benefit from our union.” 

Alistair crosses his arms, head tilted to one side. “I haven’t spent a lot of time at court, but I doubt there’s that much of a shortage of intelligent, charming men. You couldn’t have gotten the same political advantage by marrying one who, novel as this might be at court, also loves you?” 

As if it were that simple… 

But he’s always been stubborn; she can’t brush this aside. Now that he’s started asking the questions, he won’t stop until he understands. Better to give him answers here, in private, than have him ask again at a time she can’t choose or control. Carrying secrets for so many years is wearying. Perhaps it will feel better to put them down. 

She takes a few steps down the path, away from him, addressing her answer to the blossoms of a lilac bush. “It’s possible, I suppose. But it wouldn’t have been fair to him.” Any more than it would have been to Nate, even if rejecting him had put a wedge into a friendship that was one of the few things she had left from her childhood. 

“It’s somehow ‘fair’ to marry a man who doesn’t -- who can’t -- love you? One who’s been in love with someone else the entire time you’ve known him?” Alistair’s voice rises, and she pictures the way his hands must be waving to punctuate the words. 

“Yes, that’s perfectly fair.” Alexia hears her own voice, calm and steady, the words slightly distant as if they’re coming from somewhere outside of herself. The lilac is beautiful. She admires the delicate blossoms as the mask is set aside and the truth seeps out. “Because so have I.” 

There’s a stunned silence. She can’t see Alistair’s face to guess how much he understands. So she holds her breath and waits. The lilac really is beautiful, myriad tiny petals silvery pale in the moonlight, a hint of their sweet fragrance lingering in the evening air. 

“Why haven’t you…” He stops, feeling his way through the problem. He’s never been as witless as he likes to pretend. “Is it because his father was a traitor, so it would look bad for the queen’s advisor to be associated with him? Couldn’t you ask Anora to… I don’t know. _Can_ you pardon someone from guilt by association?” 

“No, I’m not…” Alexia shakes her head with a rueful laugh. That answers how much he understands. He’s not stupid, but he’s never been good at seeing his own value. “Not with Nate. He used to be a good friend, yes, and there was a time he would have welcomed…” It doesn’t matter, that time long gone. “It’s not Nate. It was never Nate. Alistair…” 

Words fail her, along with her courage. She turns towards him, hoping he’ll see the truth written on her face so she doesn’t have to say the words she’s scarcely let herself think. 

She can’t guess what he sees of her thoughts in that moment, but he’s gone very still, all of that idle, restless energy contained. He stares at her, stunned, and Maker, if that’s pity starting to form in his eyes, she’ll never… 

Alistair shakes his head like he’s trying to clear it, then meets her eyes, bewildered. “Me?” A soft, mirthless laugh. “Why?” 

The honesty of the question breaks her heart, and she steps closer, holding his gaze with none of her usual practiced evasion. She doesn’t even try to control her voice, allowing it to emerge uneven and breaking. Alexia offers him simple truths and utter sincerity for the first time in… two years? five? ever? “Because you are the kindest, bravest, noblest, most caring man I’ve ever known. Because you made me laugh when I’d forgotten how. Because you’re loyal and honorable and stubborn to a fault when there’s something you believe in. Because you’re selfless and gentle and have no idea how incredibly gorgeous you are.” A huff of sympathetic laughter emerges at his utter, helpless confusion as words pour out of her, open and freeing even as they tear at her throat on the way through. 

Alexia folds her hands together to keep from reaching for him or doing anything else foolish -- too late -- and finishes softly with a simple, aching truth. “Because no one else has ever compared, and I can’t stop feeling this way. So how could I ever have married a man who loved me when I would never be able to put him above you?” 

The moonlit garden is silent in the wake of her confession. Alistair stares at her for a long moment, his face impossible to read as anything beyond shock. His mouth opens soundlessly, closes, then opens again. “Lexia, you can’t…” He gives a shaky laugh and drops his head into one hand, scrubbing it over his face like he’s trying to wake up. His hand falls away, but he doesn’t raise his head or eyes back to her. “I’m not worth… I’m not any of that.” 

“You are.” She steps closer still, needing him to believe. If she’s going to say all of this, reveal everything she’s been hiding for so very long, she needs him to at least believe it. 

He keeps his face turned downward, eyes fixed on the gravel path and the hem of her skirt. 

Alexia stretches a hand out, two fingers beneath his chin, raising his head so he’ll look at her, Void take it. If she’s throwing it all away, the years of caution, she needs at least that much in return. “Alistair, you are.” Her voice trembles. “You always have been.” 

He doesn’t resist or pull away, and they stand locked there for a dozen too-fast heartbeats. She’s acutely aware of the skin beneath her fingertips, warm and prickling with a hint of stubble this late in the day. His eyes are fixed on her, soft brown seeming darker in the dim light, holding an intensity she’s never seen in them. She could lose herself entirely in the way he’s looking at her. 

Words escape his parted lips on an exhalation, in a tone that could be awe or despair. “Maker, Lexia…” 

He leans across the vanishing space that separates them, pressing his lips to hers. 

Alexia freezes, everything gone crystalline still in that moment of contact. She never expected… She’s barely even let herself imagine what it might be like. It was never her dream to have. 

The firm press becomes tentative, and he starts to pull away. An almost physical ache runs through her at the loss of what she never thought she’d have. She surges after his retreating lips, graceless and perhaps too hard, their mouths crushing together. 

He doesn’t seem to mind, wrapping an arm around her like they were dancing, but closer. Her hand slides along his jaw, stubble rasping against her palm, and her fingers slip into the hair at the back of his neck. She wants more, to touch him, to savor the feel of his skin, but even this much overwhelms her. His hand splays between her shoulder blades and pulls her against him, her body pressing tight against his armor, the leather and metal felt through her gown. Her lips part in a gasp, and he takes it as invitation. A whine escapes her throat, and she wraps her arms around his neck, trying to meld even closer into his warmth. She’s surrounded by the feel of him, strong and gentle and safe. The scents of leather and steel and lilac surround her, heady and impossible, and she never wants this to end. 

When it eventually does, she can’t bring herself to pull away, burying her face in the join of his neck and shoulder, eyes closed, trembling, her breath coming fast and shallow. The rapid pulse in his neck thrums against her cheek, matching her own. Alistair’s hand still cradles the back of her neck, tender and protective, but he can’t shield her from herself. 

“Maker, Lexia…” It’s the same gutted tone as before, if more breathless. “Why didn’t you ever…” 

She raises her head and pulls back from the embrace, his arms falling away. That single step costs her more than every battle she’s ever fought, the loss of his warmth painful as a sharp, bone-deep ache. Raising her chin in the tatters of her crumbling honor, she looks him in the eye. “For the same reason we’re both going to walk away from this now.” 

The emotions flicker across his face: understanding, regret, guilt. “Lisbet. You think Anora’s wrong, that she doesn’t need replacing.” There’s a wry twist to his lips on the final word. Maker, his lips… 

Her breath emerges in a huff of pained laughter, amusement at a joke that isn’t funny. But if she doesn’t laugh, she might scream. “I think she’s still alive, yes.” 

“Why are you so certain? It’s been more than two years. We ended an entire Blight in less than that. Why do you still believe she’s coming back?” There’s a haunted desperation in his eyes, a weight to the question. He’s always trusted and relied on her, and he needs this answer, a reason to cling to hope. 

Alexia lets her lips curve into a tiny, sad smile. “Because she has you to come back to, and that means everything to her. She’d never leave you like this.” 

There’s nothing more to be said after that. They walk back through the gardens at a careful arm's length, silent save for the soft crunch of gravel underfoot, and they part at the door to the ballroom without another word. 

Alexia spends the rest of the night attending to her neglected duties, the chancellor courting political allies and favors, gathering what information she can that may help Ferelden navigate the chaos spreading through all of Thedas. Her gaze never strays after the flash of blue and silver that catches her eye in the crowd. 

 

The next time she hears Alistair mentioned, it’s months later and he’s on the run, hiding from Grey Wardens who have been tasked to kill him. He could have come to her for sanctuary; she would have protected him against anything, even the order they were both sworn to serve. 

But she knows why he didn’t. He can’t trust her. Or himself.


End file.
